Most forgeries ‘fall out’ after about fifty years or so; in other words, they conform to the popular image of the artist held at the time the fake was made—an instance of this is the Botticelli forgeries made during the Burne-Jones period. Later generations, who see the artist quite differently, distinguish between the ‘true’ appearance of his work and the ideas held about him by an earlier generation of admirers and smugly wonder how their fathers could have been so easily deceived.
—Entry: fakes and forgeries, The Penguin Dictionary of Art and Artists, p. 175, Peter and Linda Murray
Anonymous said: do you want to get married and have kids? (assuming you haven't done those things)
to someone who is not sure that they themselves are real, the ability to make more of me does not reassure
Anonymous said: how do you cope with the fact that nobody will ever understand you the way you understand you?
I’m very sure that we’re all mysteries to ourselves.
The more a person attracts adherents and admirers, the more a person seems to present a unified intention and gapless self-comprehension, the more you may be certain that that person is a complete mystery to him or herself. Needless to say, like attracts like, and the admirers mirror this shell enclosing a vacuity.
If you wanted to see this in the wild, and at the same time witness a whole sheaf of hateful pathologies splayed out with uncommon vividness, read the lead paragraph of this New York Times Style section article from 2002:
If the social commentators are to be believed, the post-Sept. 11 world has caused a certain kind of woman to re-evaluate what she is looking for in a man. Theoretically, this woman — clever, controlled, prone to overthink — no longer feels an inexorable pull toward the guy who shows up in a skinny vintage suit and a pair of Converse All Stars, a copy of something by Gaston Bachelard peeking out of his pocket. She has seen the valiant efforts of rescue workers and remarked to herself that men like Donald Rumsfeld make big, impactive decisions in the time it would take any of her exes to order lunch. Suddenly she finds herself tired of the dawdlers, melancholics and other variants of genius who would not know what to do with a baseball mitt or a drill press.
It might just be personal preference on my part, but there’s something nicer about people who are empty like a bell compared to those whose anxiety has sutured closed around the mystery of them. Cuz the people who have worried themselves into smooth shell always feel like they’re completely covered with hornets when you get close enough to them…
Anonymous said: Would you sit for a portrait?
unequivocal yes, but the portraitist has to be in it too
Anonymous said: I hope you die soon
I think about that too.
Anonymous said: How do you break addictions?
recall the marina abramović bit where she locked lips with a partner and they breathed each other’s breaths until one of them passed out
now recall that we stand in precisely the same relationship to trees, speeding as we do, though a vacuum on our island lung
and, far from killing one another, our respective exhalations are just what the other needs to respire
or again, big jim hogg, the twentieth governor of texas, whose enormous body—as stipulated in his will—was buried beneath a pecan tree rather than a headstone
the pecans that fell from the tree were gathered and planted the length and breadth of the state
the body is after all only a skein of yarn, filamentary, and by its nature having a beginning and an end
but that slavery to a single dimension disappears once you’ve begun to knit and felt yourself join a general fabric
and fear of being becomes dissolved in the higher surfaces